to count for eternity
by bottledlogic
Summary: Spencer Reid isn't weak. / Set at the start of season 7, post-Doyle; Hotch/Prentiss; a lot of Reid POV; character death / [Nominated for the 2014 & 2015 Profiler's Choice Awards - Best Spencer Reid]
1. one

**a/n**: so this is a mix of angsty ideas thrown together. mentions of drug abuse. also, this is mostly linear, but watch out for time jumps.

* * *

><p><strong>to count for eternity<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>one.<strong>

...

Spencer Reid's head is spinning, and he can't make it _stop_.

This is a stupid stupid activity, he thinks, but he continues to put one hand above the other, move one foot above the next. Hand, foot, foot, hand, and if he concentrates really hard, the spinning slows down, just a little.

It shouldn't be this difficult, but he's this tall gangly human being with almost no upper body strength, and he distractedly hears her laughing below. High and clear, it sparkles, _come on, Reid, nearly there now_. She's pulling the rope, tighter and tighter, and he can feel the tension, can feel himself rising, and his head starts spinning even faster.

_Almost there, Spencer! You can do it._

(And then suddenly, someone sneezes, a clap of thunder peals through the gym, there's a shriek of sound

and he lets go.)

* * *

><p>There are days where he is five again, and he reads and reads and reads; curled up in his favourite armchair, in bed beneath the covers, aloud with his voice bouncing off the walls. He has always loved the idea of stories; truth and lies presented in complex and subtle layers, yet sound and accurate on superficial levels.<p>

(he loves that stories are hidden.

no, that's not right. _chracters_ are hidden.)

He holds onto the notion that all stories have ounces of inherent terror. Or maybe, this is how he's always seen it. Spencer Reid likes scary stories, likes the freaky and supernatural.

But sometimes, there are words he can't unsee, can't forget.

He's never been much of an unreliable narrator.

* * *

><p>"Hey. Reid."<p>

He pointedly ignores her, preferring to scribble down illegible words instead.

"Spence," she tries again, allowing a soft plea to enter. "Are you – "

"JJ, I'm fine. Really."

He knows that she knows that he isn't. He's really not going to say anything, though.

He still has his secrets to keep.

* * *

><p>He feels the rough carpet scraping across his knee and elbows, but right now, he doesn't care. Impending, he can sense his lunch coming back up, and his eyes are red raw (from crying or tiredness, he doesn't know) and he lurches for the white ceramic bowl, grasping tightly onto the rim, and spills. Over and over, getting angrier each time. His throat is sandpaper, and once it stops, he takes huge gulping breaths, steadies himself, and glances at his reflection in the mirror.<p>

And he _has_ to look at himself, before he can open the door and reach behind for it. Twisted genius, he thinks.

The whole team called him out on it, all those years before, but only two of his closest friends (family) managed to get to him.

_and they're both _

_gone_

Another wave of tears hits him as he thumps, smashes, his hand against the mirror. His head bowed and frame shaking, he lets them run, lets the wetness soak in. His ears ring and his hand is red and bloody, and in one frantic movement, he reaches for the vials inside, grabs the needle, and sinks to the floor.

The track marks have long since faded, but the familiarity is shocking.

He's always hated pain.

* * *

><p>JJ is persistent and he has to give her credit for that.<p>

She's been coming by the bullpen more frequently since Emily died. This is how it usually works: she gets off the elevator, stares through the glass doors, and allows a wistful look to cross her face; spends half an hour with Garcia and her screens, just lounging, promises to go for lunch; half an hour in Hotch's office with the blinds slightly drawn, but he can see the tense outlines and the muted defeat in his body; another half an hour in the bullpen, where Morgan usually joins him and Ashley, catching up on whatever gossip she's missed and reminiscing with whatever story the rookie has missed (they usually feature Emily, and there are a lot of them).

And as JJ leaves, she squeezes his shoulder and stares him in the eye. (He can't quite keep the contact).

"Spencer, come over tonight, have dinner with Will and Henry and me," she offers softly.

Normal has always been a relative term for him, but this is as close as it gets for him, and he takes it.

Dinner happens, and he refuses to give in to the cravings, but it leaves him shaking. Will carries Henry to bed, and he collapses, relieved, onto her couch. She's not crying, but he is.

"JJ, I – I can't."

She pulls him close and whispers into his hair.

"I miss her too, Spence."

* * *

><p>Aaron Hotchner is not the type to make lists of everything and nothing, and anything in between.<p>

But he hugs Reid after they find him on Hankel's farm, and it might have been one of the simplest things he's ever done.

* * *

><p>"Agent Reid, tell me what – "<p>

"It's 'Doctor', actually."

The tweed-and-bowtie-wearing man in front of him blinks once, and waits for him to calm his nervous tapping.

"Okay. Doctor Reid, tell me what happened that morning."

He stays silent for the next hour, watching the clock tick over, before grabbing his bag and walking out.

* * *

><p>Some days he wonders what it would be like if Emily didn't die, if JJ wasn't forced to leave, if Foyet didn't go after Hotch, if Mason Turner never pushed his brother off the roof, if Riley Jenkins was never murdered, if his father stayed, if Colorado never happened, if Morgan wasn't so blasé about running headlong into every explosion, if Rossi had solved Indianapolis twenty years ago, if people had understood Owen Savage, if Garcia hadn't needed the validation of a complete stranger, if Haley had never left Hotch, if Gideon still believed, if he never decided to run off without JJ, if they hadn't assumed Elle would be okay, if he didn't go into the FBI, if his mom wasn't schizophrenic, if he wasn't a genius.<p>

He's always been fascinated by the idea of alternate universes.

* * *

><p>He lies better now.<p>

Or maybe it's because no-one's looking as hard, because it's easy to assume that he, just like everyone, is still dealing with it.

But this morning, his head is sluggish for his standards, his movements jerky, and he tries to read his pages but the lights are far too bright. He thinks he catches Morgan staring, wondering, but keeps his eyes glued to the page.

"Reid."

A low voice breaks his concentration, and he snarks back before his head snaps up angrily. "Morgan, I'm fine, okay?"

He stares into the eyes of his supervisor, before guiltily starting and mutters a faint apology.

"Sorry, Hotch, thought you were Morgan."

"Reid, take a day off. Get some rest, no arguments," he orders bluntly.

"Hotch, I'm fi – "

"No, you're not," he cuts in. "You look like you're about to fall over and your eyes are bloodshot. You can leave the reports for tomorrow. Get Morgan to drive you, or take a cab, just get some sleep. I need you awake and alert – we've got another case coming in the next few days."

His eyes harden and he wants to wipe the impassive look and professionalism from his face, and he's really not thinking straight when he fires back, out of nowhere. "Do you even miss her?"

The flash of intense pain on Hotch's face doesn't make him stop. If anything, it spurs him on.

"I mean, you're working like nothing's wrong. You're still the first one here and the last one to leave, you did our _psych evaluations_, Hotch! Who the hell did yours? She was _your_ friend too, wasn't she? And we're leaving for another case tomorrow, god, did you even stop to _think_ after the funeral?" His voice gets exponentially louder with each sentence, and he's irrationally lashing out, he knows, but he _just doesn't care_.

He furiously tosses his reports into his messenger bag and stumbles towards the glass door, avoiding the gazes of anyone (everyone). He feels the weight of the glass vial in his pocket, feels it burn through his slacks, knows he doesn't have to wait long.

And when the cool of the bathroom tiles greet him, he wonders if he's the only one who can't cope, who can't move on.

* * *

><p>This time, they both sit in silence.<p>

This is the fourth time that he's been in Mr. Tweed-and-Bowtie's office. He's already catalogued the different plants lining the window, figured out the artists of the oil paintings hanging from the walls.

"Doctor Reid, you're not wasting my time, but I hope you're not wasting your own," he says patiently, although with a slight ounce of frustration.

He looks up from his knees, and he can't argue with that, can't argue with time. His mouth is dry as he swallows.

"I can't," he whispers. "I just can't."

* * *

><p>They solve that case, and another and another. The days blur into each other; he can still remember the most minute of details, but he finds it increasingly difficult to distinguish between one robotic day and another.<p>

JJ still invites him over, and most nights, she sits side-by-side with him, holds his hand and waits for his cries to subside. He half-hopes that she can call him out on it, that she can straight-out just _ask him_. But she just lets him be, and he reasons that maybe she's still dealing, and we all have our demons, don't we?

It scares the fuck out of him when he gets home and sees Emily standing just outside his bathroom. He reaches forward desperately, to touch, to know.

A loud clang reverberates as the vial crashes to the floor, and he looks up, blinks dazedly, _she disappears_, and slides his hand up to his face to feel the wet sheen of tears.

* * *

><p>He sits on the damp grass, not caring that the dew is seeping through his slacks. It's cold and uncomfortable and the edges of the headstone are rough and his finger traces over and over. The sun is too warm and he feels the tugging right from his chest, deep down, and it hurts <em>so much<em> to breathe.

"God, Hotch. _I'm so sorry_."


	2. two

**to count for eternity**

* * *

><p><strong>two.<strong>

...

Seven months later, when Hotch calls them into the conference room, he doesn't know what to expect anymore.

(Truth be told, he's given up on expecting things from people.)

* * *

><p>Spencer Reid never dressed up like Superman when he was a kid, never ran around pretending to be Captain America. He's read the comics and seen the films of course, but he's never imagined himself as the saviour; he's always been the one who needed to be pulled out of the ditch.<p>

(The mirror in his bathroom is still smashed. He still hasn't fixed it.)

So when he spies Emily tiredly seated at her desk (back where she belongs), he only hesitates for a moment before bringing her a cup of tea.

"Tea, right? No more coffee?"

She looks up at him, unsurprised. "You noticed."

He only pauses for a bit before answering. "Yeah, I mean, you noticed my headaches too. And besides, we should be keeping a closer eye on you," he adds bitterly.

Her eyes turn sorrowful as he walks away.

"You're doing a lot better," she whispers to his back.

* * *

><p>"I was mad at both of them," he states plainly.<p>

"Them?"

"You know who I'm talking about." He gives him an irritated look. "JJ. And… Hotch," he says with a hitch.

"Because they kept the truth about Agent Prentiss from you?"

"No, from all of us."

"And how did that – "

" – Make me feel? Standard question, I know. I told you, I was mad."

He raises an eyebrow. "I was going to ask how it affected your work."

"It didn't," he grits out. "It didn't directly affect my work."

"And indirectly?"

He can't stop the guilt and anguish from showing. "I think you know the answer to that. It's why we're here, isn't it?"

* * *

><p>He picks up on more social cues than he lets on; he's a magician and he always wants at least one trick up his sleeve.<p>

Since Emily's been resurrected, everything and nothing has changed. He still gets intense headaches, still feels like the baby of the team, still awkwardly tries to talk to women no matter what life advice Morgan gives, still memorises everything he reads, still has a statistic for almost every situation, still uses.

So when a dull paperwork day comes around (he won't tell anyone, but he does look forward to these days; no one dies, after all), he stays behind after almost every agent has left. Almost, because he spies Emily still in Hotch's office, low lights drawing a relaxed profile of the two them.

He switches off his own light and tugs his bag around his shoulder, his natural curiosity leading him to sit in his car and wait until the last two BAU members to call it a night. He sees them rounding the corner together, _laughing_; it clicks so suddenly and he's so angry and lost that it hurts.

He pulls out of his spot and the drive home is quick, his focus is narrowed. Killing the ignition, he jumps out of the car and almost runs into her.

"Get out of my way," he snaps.

"No," she returns simply.

"How the hell did you get here first, anyway?"

Her mouth twitches. "We put the siren on."

And white hot anger fires up. "Yeah, everything's hilarious, isn't it?"

Her expression sobers and she reaches out to grab his wrist. "Reid, let us in, and we can talk. Not out here."

He tugs his arm away to open the door, and she follows a step behind. He dumps his bag next to the counter before turning abruptly to her.

"Make yourself at home," he mutters. "I have to use the bathroom."

She glances up sharply. "No, you're not. I know what you're going to do – "

"You don't know anything, okay? You – you waltz back in and you laugh like everything's fine, like nothing happened. I _saw_ you and Hotch earlier, since when did you two become best friends? I mean, he knew, so I guess it wasn't as hard for him, right? Do you have any idea what it was like waiting in that hospital? And JJ – " He breaks off to laugh. "They should have just told us," he finishes quietly.

The flash of anger dispelled the need, and now he's shaking. She lets him have a beat, before leading them both to the couch.

"Get angry at me, fine, but do not put any of this on JJ and Hotch. Yes, I didn't want any of you to know, because Doyle went after families, and he knew where _every single one of you_ were at any time. Not just you guys, but Jack, Henry, Will…"

"Bullshit. We're FBI, we could have done something."

"No, you couldn't have," she says flatly. "It took a specialised international task force the first time round, and this time, he had nothing to lose." Her voice drops at his hardened look. "Did you honestly think Paris was a holiday, that it was _easy?_ Reid, you lost one friend; I lost _six_. I lost a whole family."

He mumbles something incoherent under his breath, and tries to look anywhere except in her direction.

"Reid, look at me."

He does so, reluctantly. "Emily," he cracks out. "We thought you were _dead_. I went to JJ for ten weeks and I cried on her couch, and she looked me in the eye and didn't tell me a thing. I yelled at Hotch, and – and he just told me take the day off. I couldn't – can't – "

"Dilaudid?" She asks quietly.

His silence gives him away.

(And they sit there, side by side, no words exchanged.)

"It hurt so much," he finally admits. "It still hurts." He fidgets with his watch for a moment. "How did you know the first time?" And he's scared, because _he hides_, and he's from Vegas, and he has a pretty decent poker face.

She gives him a long, measured look. "Do you remember Matthew Benton?" At his small nod, she continues. "His parents and my mom were both stationed in Rome when we were fifteen. It wasn't a good time for either of us, but he was my best friend, and he turned to heroin to escape."

"What about you? What did you do?"

She looks him dead in the eye. "The opposite. Ecstasy. I needed to feel something."

"What do you mean?"

"Compartmentalising works well," she says after a pause. "It works so well, that sometimes you forget it's okay to feel… and then you _can't_."

(There are days where all she has are thick black straight lines dividing everything and nothing, and she walks on them, on the tip of her toes and poised and graceful.

The lines only really seem to bend when she's falling falling falling falling.)

"…So you gonna tell Hotch?"

"It's for you to tell. But if he asks, I'm not going to lie," she says carefully.

"No, you're not going to lie to him, just to everyone else," he bites out.

"Spencer."

He lets loose a shaky breath. "Is it wrong that I don't want… don't want anyone's help yet?"

"Reid, we can't – and we won't – force you to do anything," she tells him gently. "You have to make your own choices, and if you want or need help, well, Hotch and I are both here, okay?"

(And he can't do anything except give her a simple nod.)

* * *

><p>Elephant's memory, everyone. Elephant's memory.<p>

* * *

><p>She pokes her head through his office door.<p>

"Hey," he smiles. "Sorry, I'm almost done with these consults. Just give me another thirty."

"Don't be stupid, give me half," she gestures to the mountain on her right. "I'm not going to sit and watch you fill out forms. Also, I read faster than you."

"Not as fast as Reid."

"Yeah, but who does?" She gives him a wry grin.

Minutes pass with the scratching of pens on paper, before he glances up at her again. "How is he?"

"How would you be?"

"Emily, that's not an answer."

"Well, maybe you should ask Reid instead," she says with a hint of impatience. "Look, Hotch, I get that you're the boss and you're doing the whole 'maintaining a distance' thing, but it wouldn't hurt if you just talked to him. His father left him, Gideon left, and he thinks you were a stone cold bastard during those seven months. Just… give him the chance to see that that's not true."

"And how do _you_ know that?" He challenges with a hint of fear.

Her gaze softens. "Because I was with you and Jack on the weekend when you coached his soccer team. Because I'm sitting in your office right now after everyone's left, filling out forms _with_ you, not for you. And because you've called me 'Emily' more times in the last month and a half, than in the last five years combined." She smiles sadly. "It's okay, Aaron. We all have our ways of hiding."

He doesn't look entirely convinced. "So what about you?"

"I offered a … unique perspective." At his raised eyebrows, she sighs. "A story for another day, I promise. Come on, let's go home. You can talk to him tomorrow, but for now, I want pizza and a movie."

"Home?" His mouth quivers but doesn't quite form a smile.

"Seriously, that's what you pick up on?"

She stands up and shrugs on her coat as he turns off the lights and draws the blinds shut. And he sends her a mock scowl when she mischievously tugs his hand into hers.

* * *

><p>"Doctor Reid, when did you start using Dilaudid?"<p>

He averts his eyes. "February of 2007."

"And you've been continually using it for nearly five years?"

"No," he looks up defiantly. "I was clean for almost four years."

"But you started using again."

"Is that a question, Doctor Petersen?" He blinks rapidly, and unconsciously clenches and unclenches his fists.

"No," he acknowledges. "My question is this: _why_ do you think you started again?"

He stays silent until the hour is almost over. And it's not until Doctor Petersen opens his mouth to speak that he replies in the smallest of voices.

"Because my head hurt _all the time_. And then I got away with it, so I continued, even after she came back and figured it out again." He stops to furiously rub his eyes. "She told me she and Hotch would help, and I pushed her away. Again."

"Doctor Reid, is this helping right now?"

"Yeah," he says. "It is, but only because it's mandatory after what I did."

* * *

><p>There are too many dead people in the world.<p>

Of course, he doesn't know many of them. Spencer Reid knows a lot of things, can remember a lot of people, but this is far beyond his comprehension.

However, he does know that one of them (_one of theirs, oh god, she's dead_) has their blood spilled bright and red on his hands.

(There are too many dead people in the world.)

* * *

><p>...<p>

_Apologies for the delay - I struggled with this one, so it would be lovely if you let me know what you think._


	3. three

**A/N**: So terribly sorry that this is late - uni has been brutal and my muse hid in a corner in a completely different fandom. Also, kudos to anyone who spots all the _Doctor Who_ references...

* * *

><p><strong>to count for eternity<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>three.<strong>

...

He does a quick internet search, because he likes knowing, sometimes too much.

He tries not to think too hard when he reads that 'psychological dependence to opioids is not considered a normal consequence of their continued use for medical purposes and is thought to occur only in susceptible individuals.'

* * *

><p>"Reid, are you doing anything tonight? I need the company to go through all the <em>Doctor Who<em> episodes that I missed."

He glances over curiously. "What about Garcia? And Hotch?"

"She's out with Kevin at the movies. And Hotch has yet to embrace the sheer brilliance and cheesiness of it. Also, he's over at Jessica's." She gives him a warm smile. "Are you in?"

"Yeah, okay," he acquiesces after a moment's deliberation. "Season six, though. There were a lot of issues with them."

.

And so he finds himself in her apartment, staring out the glass windows overlooking the Potomac. He doesn't hear her come up behind him, only knows she's there when she nudges him with the rim of the bowl holding endless amounts of popcorn.

"Hey," she says. "You still there?"

He turns and his eyes are bright and glassy, and she feels a deep deep tugging in her stomach.

"Reid, are you – ?"

"Yeah," he admits quietly.

"What do you need?" She asks after a moment.

He swallows. "I need to not be angry at you and Hotch and JJ." _I need to not be angry at myself and Hankel and all the UNSUBs and the whole fucking world_. "I need time, okay Emily? Just – Let's just watch this."

He brushes past her to the couch and she follows. He reaches for the remote with shaky hands and she gently covers them with her own.

"Hey. We're not going to leave you alone, okay? You have issues with us, you can come and vent and yell all you like, whenever you want but preferably not at work. But none of us are going to give up on you," she says quietly, fiercely.

They sit back and watch in silence, save for the crunching of popcorn and the shuffling of feet. Halfway through, she mutters, "Huh. Didn't see that one coming."

He gives her a half-smile. "Yeah, the internet kind of exploded when that happened."

"I mean, _their daughter_? What the hell were they thinking?"

"Don't worry, it gets better. Well, it makes more sense, at least."

"Yeah, it better. Such a waste of a character if it doesn't," she says.

They get through another four and a bit before she realises that he's fallen asleep next to her. Instantly turning her attention away from the screen, she checks his breathing and notes with a breath of relief that it's normal.

(She hates that she knows from past experience.)

She tucks a blanket around him and settles in for the finale; one eye on the screen and one on the prone form. Around midnight, the credits roll, and she reaches for the pen and pad of paper lying on the coffee table.

And she writes.

.

He disentangles himself from the couch just as the sun peeks through the windows. Stepping over her, he spies the note on the edge of the table and guiltily swipes it before heading out the door. It's not until he enters the safety of his car that he opens it.

_Spencer –_

_You're right; it did get better. Absolutely ridiculous and heartwarming, but I guess that's science fiction. The ending, though – everybody lies. Sometimes it's justifiable, sometimes disgustingly so. And I don't think I've said it, but I'm really, truly sorry for that. The selfish part of me wants to just move on, and the other selfish part wishes that I hadn't come back at all. Please don't think that I don't know or don't care – there's stuff hidden behind my mirrors too._

_Emily._

* * *

><p>"Tell me about Kyle Lawrence."<p>

"His mother abandoned him when he was eleven, father died of colon cancer four years later, spent the next three years in foster care. Wasn't an extraordinarily difficult kid, average grades, but met a girl who introduced him to the wrong type of people."

"Juvenile delinquents?"

Reid gives him an indecipherable look. "No, it was a cult."

"A cult?"

"Yeah. It wasn't hard to remove him from all of his family and friends anyway. Found spiritual enlightenment and acceptance and was becoming one of the trusted followers until he realised his mom was also living on the same compound."

"Must have been traumatic."

"It confused him," he says bluntly. "Monogamy wasn't high on their list of priorities."

He pauses to stare out the window. "I mean, he was abandoned, taken in by this cult, corrupted..."

"So there was nothing you could do for him?"

"That's not true," he says half-heartedly. "No one's beyond saving."

"And do _you_ believe that, Doctor Reid?"

"Depends when you ask me. Five years ago, probably yes. Today, not really. Tomorrow?" He laughs darkly. "It doesn't matter. Everybody dies."

* * *

><p>She came back.<p>

She comes back, and this is an absolute truth.

She comes back, and she sees JJ's guilt and Garcia's fear and Rossi's pain and Hotch's distance and Ashley's absence and Morgan's anger and Reid's betrayal.

She comes back, and half the time she wishes she hadn't.

(She came back, but she doesn't tell them how much of her didn't.)

* * *

><p>They play laser tag, all seven of them.<p>

Despite Rossi's (good-natured) grumbling and Garcia's hesitance at the symbolism behind shooting at one another, they actually enjoy themselves.

(It ends up being Emily, Reid and himself, versus Rossi, Morgan, Garcia, and JJ. Rossi only wishes the hundred and forty dollars wasn't diluted amongst four people instead of three.)

He sees Reid struggling to remove the vest, and he leans over involuntarily to tug it free over his head. He freezes for a split second, before allowing his cool (professional) mask to slip back in place.

(He could have been doing it for Jack.)

Reid glances over. "Thanks," he mumbles.

He allows the barest hint of a grin to show. "I could have taken a photo, but I didn't."

On Monday morning, Reid finds a picture of a giraffe on his desk. He wonders where the sense of humour came from.

* * *

><p>"Hey, uh, Hotch?"<p>

He shifts awkwardly on the spot as Hotch glances up.

"Reid, come in. What can I do for you?"

"I need to talk to Kyle Lawrence," he blurts out.

Hotch's face doesn't give anything away, but Reid swears he looks discreetly out to the bullpen where Emily and Morgan are.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Reid," he says carefully.

"Why?" He fires back. "Hotch, look, I'm perfectly fine and I've done all the paperwork and I've gone through victimology with JJ and Morgan. I just need to ask him about Tracy Donnelly and the high school."

"Reid, you know we don't have anything on him. At the moment, it's all circumstantial, so I don't want anyone stirring something up at that compound and letting all hell break loose." He sighs. "I covered for you five years ago, and I trust that you can sort it now as well, but I cannot let you talk to him if you're still under the influence of Dilaudid."

He pauses to take a breath. "What did you want to ask? It's not too far; I can head over there with Prentiss and ask for you."

His eyes shine brightly. "Yeah? Why would a girl like Tracy Donnelly – brought up with the cult's mentality, sweet and naïve, told not to talk to anyone on the outside – suddenly decide to befriend him? You work it out, Hotch," he finishes brusquely, slamming the door behind him.

He stalks back over to the desk, ignoring Morgan's question, and he pretends not to notice when Hotch gestures to Emily and they walk out the glass doors.

"Okay, kid, want to tell me what that was about?"

He shakes his head and stares at his sheet, willing his thoughts to organise.

Half an hour later, his head snaps up. "Guys, I think I've got it – it's his mother we should be looking at."

"Okay, what do you mean?"

He can feel the excitement building and bubbling over. "Tracy wouldn't just go and _ask_ him. But his mom…" He trails off and quickly shoves his things in his bag. "Guys, I'm going to go over there now."

"Reid, just give Hotch a call – "

"No, it's faster if I just go."

"Reid – "

"I'll call you later," he tosses over his shoulder as he sprints out.

* * *

><p>She sardonically thinks that one could play a drinking game with her career – one sip for every time she gets used as bait; a shot for every time she gets beat up; two for being hit with any vehicle; three for being held hostage; down the whole bottle if she gets shot andor codes in an ambulance.

She'd be fairly well drunk.

So when Kyle Lawrence starts gesticulating wildly and manages to lunge and grab her, she mentally lets loose a string of curses in Italian, stands still with the gun pressed deep against her back, and hopes that Hotch and Reid can calm him down.

(Goddammit, she hopes it's just a single shot this time.)

* * *

><p>"So you left the office and went to the compound, against Agent Hotchner's orders?"<p>

"Yes."

Doctor Petersen sets his pen down and leans back, waiting.

"I knew it. I was right," he cracks. "I needed to prove it."

"Prove it to whom?"

"Emily. Hotch. Myself."

He can't stop the tears from leaking out.

* * *

><p>In a valid experiment, only one variable can be changed. He is a scientist; he knows this.<p>

(Pick one, Spencer – you, or Dilaudid?)

* * *

><p><em>Wasn't he here years ago? No, stop. Think. Date – December 12, 2011. Time – 11:40am. Location – La Plata County, Colorado. Right?<em>

His eyes are still too bright, and his head is this wonderful cloud of whizzing ideas and formulae and images and words and confidence.

And so he speaks.

"…Mr. Lawrence – Kyle – you don't have to do this, okay? We can sit down, have a chat inside. You don't have to see your mother again."

"Leave her out of this!"

"We know that she forced Tracy Donnelly to find you and bring you here. You were doing okay on your own, and they lured you in…"

She's staring straight at him, hope and trust and fear and warmth in her eyes, and all he can see is _i can take it_, and he doesn't understand, just repeats whywhywhywhywhywhywhy –

"…Kyle, I understand. They lied to you, she lied to you – "

" – They _taught_ me! They found me!"

"No, Kyle, you were lost and Tracy saw that too and then they _lied_ to you – "

" – Shut up! Just – just shut up! You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, okay?"

"Mr. Cyrus – no, Ben – no sorry, I mean Kyle – everyone lies and it hurts, and maybe you wish you could hurt them back for every time, but – "

.

Bang

.

– and falling twisting landing dancing like a marionette really is beautiful – it's too bright i can't see them where did they go – why is hotch's face so white – _shit there's too much red_ – no, apply pressure here – hotch, help me, please please please – call 911 – come on emily – oh god he heard _and_ watched this time – okay we can take off her coat (fuck, why did she have to wear a white one) – open your eyes look at hotch squeeze his hand – where's kyle – where's the fucking ambulance – listen to me please – NO please emily emily emily emilyemilyemilyemily –

* * *

><p>such a lonely little boy. lonely then and lonelier now.<p>

oh doctor, so lonely, so very very alone.

* * *

><p>"And were you right?"<p>

"Yes," he whispers. "But why the fuck does that matter? I'm an addict, I couldn't – _didn't_ – think. I talked, and Emily's dead."


	4. four

**A/N**: I haven't forgotten this fic; just that stuff's been happening for the last few months that has made it ridiculously hard to write this particular story. I'm going to try to get this done as soon as humanly possible, but no guarantees as to when the next installment will be... On a separate note, I've been told that this story has been nominated for the 2014 Profilers Choice Awards. Just wanted to say thank you to those who nominated it, and also for those who have stuck with this despite the absurdly long break. (Also, go and check out the other nominated stories!)

* * *

><p><strong>to count for eternity<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>four.<strong>

...

It's Morgan who reaches Hotch first.

(_oh god, not again_)

It's Morgan who sees him cradle a lifeless body, clutch her close to his chest, whispering words over and over and over and over – meaningless because no one can hear, will ever hear – tears running familiar tracks down his face, pleads and pleads and pleads and doesn't ever let go.

(_fuck fuck fuck, not again_)

He pulls the SUV up to the entrance of the compound, flings the door open, and it's a mess – paramedics and local police and people from the compound and there's people crying and white noise and he's unconsciously shoving people away from the scene. And he doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand, sees the paramedics and wants to yell at them just standing there to _do their fucking job_, but they've already stepped back, and Reid is dazedly standing, phone clutched tight, and shit, _Emily_ –

(_not again, blood everywhere, no no no no no Emily, no_)

JJ jumps from the SUV, face white and eyes red, she shakily cuffs Kyle Lawrence and turns him over. She walks over to Reid, steers him away, hugs him tight, strokes his hair, and holds his shaking body.

"…JJ, it's all my fault, it's all my fault, I did this, oh god JJ, it's all my fault it's all my fault…"

Morgan glances over at her and she shakes her head minutely, indicating that he should go to Hotch. (_this is a goddamn mess_)

And he hesitates. And he can't move.

Can't interrupt.

Doesn't want to interrupt. Wants to tell everyone (gawking or not) to move away, get as far away as possible.

_Just leave them alone_, he yells silently, tears starting to blur his vision. _Give them space, leave them_…

He thinks hours must have passed because everyone seems to have left, except his team and the paramedics, and somehow he's managed to call Rossi, because he's here and trying to pry her body from their prone supervisor. There are tears sliding down his face too, ancient tears blended with new tears, and it's only now that he realises how old they all really are.

(but oh, how _young_ we try to be – doesn't matter, never matters anyway – we are born dying, derek morgan)

It's only when Rossi finally manages to pull him away that he walks towards his fallen friend. And all he can do is place a hand on Hotch's shoulder, bend down to smooth the hair off Emily's face, bow his head and cry.

(It's not fair.

He's seen the life pour out of Emily Prentiss too many times.)

* * *

><p>Somehow, JJ ends up driving all of them, with the exception of Hotch and Rossi, back to her place. Given how much her hands have been shaking, she's surprised she's managed to deliver them all in one piece. Unbidden, <em>compartmentalisation<em> floats to the front of her mind, and she viciously pushes that thought away, unlocks her door and sags into Will's arms.

The rest of her team traipse in slowly, until Garcia makes a sudden and quick beeline for Henry sitting blissfully on the floor. He's playing with his toy trucks, and she sits, her vibrant splashes of colour not incongruous with the brightly coloured plastic surrounding her. She reaches out and fingers a fire engine, wetness springing to her eyes as she remembers Emily unravelling an intricate story to Henry – something about an octopus, Dan the fireman, Elmo, and the knights of the round table – eyes dancing and laughter-filled…

And before she can reach for the tissues once again, she feels Henry's small, warm body collapse against hers, tiny arms wrapping around her neck and his hands clumsily patting her back. She sobs and hugs back, looks up, and gestures for Reid to join them.

He's standing, stricken, still at the door, unable to do anything but observe the scene around him. Garcia implores him through the thick lenses of her glasses, still clutching Henry tight. And Henry turns and looks straight at him – _his godson_ – curious and with half-understanding eyes, and he can't –

Giving Garcia a small apologetic (pleading) shake of the head, he slips out, the _need_ coursing through him, and he walks and walks and walks, desperate to get it out, by sheer will if necessary. And he walks and walks some more, finds himself outside the door of his own apartment. He opens it with trembling hands, energy spent, curls into a ball, fingers clawing into the carpet for purchase, and cries.

.

(Spencer Reid has a calendar in his head.

He marks green for the days where he lies (the big ones, of course; he gave up on the small ones ages ago), blue for the days when he snaps at someone on his team, orange for the days when he snaps at himself, yellow for the days when he feels a pounding headache dancing across his skull, purple for the days when he's hugged by his team, pink for the days when he calls his mom (that marker remains largely untouched on his imaginary desk), brown for the days that he cries himself to sleep, red for the days where his mirror is broken—not fixed—

Spencer Reid's calendar is white – _so many colours, can't keep track_ – and he can't stop himself from conducting the cacophonous symphony in his head.)

* * *

><p>He hears but he doesn't register the keys sliding into the lock. There's a faint buzzing in his ear, and he thinks maybe it's New York again and then he violently smashes smashes smashes his fist against the solid wall.<p>

A pair of arms pulls him away, and he collapses doubled over and wheezing.

"Aaron. Do you want me to call Jessica and tell her to bring Jack over?" Rossi peers down at him, a hand solidly resting on his back.

He shakes his head, vomit threatening to spill, and he gasps and gulps for air, this inhuman sound pouring out, _keening_, filling the room. He staggers over to his cabinet and reaches for the nearest bottle, cold hands grasping the cool glass.

"No, I just… just leave me alone," he says. "Please."

Rossi hands him the tumbler sitting on the counter. "What happened, Aaron?"

His hands shake as he pours, throws it back, slams the glass down.

"Everybody dies," he hisses. "Everybody _fucking dies_. I can't – I can't do anything to save anyone. Kate, Haley, Emily. And god, I can't even help Reid."

"Reid?"

"He's an addict. And I didn't listen to him, didn't listen to Emily, I should have _helped_ him," he finishes in a low voice, barely audible. "I knew, and I should have-"

"Aaron, it's not your-"

He laughs harshly, the sound scraping through his vocal cords. "No, it is. This time, it really is. If you have a train with a mechanical issue, you don't let it keep going and take passengers, because that's a bad idea and there's going to be a fucking train wreck."

"It's not your fault," Rossi repeats firmly.

"I'm his fucking _supervisor_," he roars, tears streaming, eyes manic. "I knew! I fucking knew! And I could have done _something_."

He tightens his hand against the glass, knuckles white, squeezes and feels the glorious pressure build up around his fingers. And he pushes himself to keep squeezing, rage and anger and anger and despair curling around and around (_pressure still building_) and he hears a sharp crack this time (_shit, not unlike earlier_) and senses a million shards prickling his palm, the pads of his fingers, running deep crimson rivulets following the veins of his arm—

He cradles his left hand in his right, blindly looking down and allowing Rossi to lead him to the kitchen sink (_averts his eyes; he tries so so hard not to look at the coffee mug stained with faint pink lipstick_). Taking the proffered tweezers, he turns the tap on and lets the clear water run, swallows his hiss and simply

_stands_

_there_

_and stares,_

_gasps,_

_breathes,_

(And he picks out every piece, mechanical, respectfully lays each shard and crystal down –

sparkling

– and staring at them through his tears and the streaming moonlight, he swears he can see stars mockingly wink.)


	5. five (or, choose your own adventure)

**A/N**: Just a reminder - In this story, December 12th 2011 is when all hell breaks loose (see chapter 3).

* * *

><p><strong>to count for eternity<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>five. (or, choose your own adventure. sort of.)<strong>

...

**i.**

_December 11, 2011._

It's five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She's humming the first few bars of Darth Vader's theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

Out of the corner of her eye, she periodically scans the room (old habits die hard) – Morgan with his headphones, brow furrowed and nodding along to his undoubtedly hip music; Reid chewing the end of his pen, rubbing his bloodshot eyes; Garcia animatedly talking to JJ at her desk, the latter nodding every so often in understanding; Rossi in his office on his phone (Strauss, she guesses with a smirk); Hotch highlighting pages upon pages in front of him, periodically looking at the framed picture of Jack.

And she smiles – because this is _right_, because they are a smooth and efficient team, because she can say that they are resilient without having to lie through her teeth.

(and she will _never let go_, she vows – tomorrow, she will go to the gym and spar with Morgan over the beats of heavy bass; she will have a discussion with Reid about all things to do with Russian literature; she will go out for lunch with Garcia and JJ at that pricey new café just around the corner and they will chat for longer than they have since before; she will drop in on Rossi in his office in the late afternoon, and they will converse in Italian because it is beautiful and because they can; she might even walk past Strauss' office and give her a tight smile; she will drag Hotch out of his office once everyone has left for the night and drive to his home (separately, of course; although, really, she doesn't think they're fooling anyone) and they will have dinner and play a game with Jack and she will fall asleep on his couch with her head securely nestled against his shoulder, steady breaths mingling together in the peaceful night – and _god, she will not let go again_)

The rustling of paper catches her attention, and she looks up curiously at Spencer.

"We've missed you," Reid says quietly enough that only she can hear him from across his desk.

The admission startles her (and judging from the look on his face, him as well); not the sentiment itself, but the sheer directness and simplicity coming from his tired defeated melancholic mind.

"Missed you too," she whispers back, eyes twinkling and locked onto his.

...

**ii.**

_December 11, 2011._

It's five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She's humming the first few bars of Darth Vader's theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

It's only her, Reid, and Morgan left in the bullpen. She hears Morgan sigh and tap his foot restlessly against the desk, and she smiles and starts to hum louder.

"Prentiss."

She snaps her head up. "Yeah?"

"_Star Wars_." Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Morgan, do _not_ knock the genius and brilliance that is _Star Wars_," she mock glares at him.

"I wasn't—I mean, I'm sure it's great, but you're humming the damn thing on repeat and… it's nerdy?"

"_Star Wars_ is mainstream to the point where I don't think it's counted as nerd fodder anymore. How have you _not_ seen it? Besides, you can't mock me as a nerd; you read Vonnegut," she adds loftily, catching Spencer's eye and nodding at him to back her up. "Reid?"

"Umm, Emily's right," he blinks. "Every kid watches _Star Wars_; it's a classic."

"Not the latest three," Emily mutters.

Reid half-smiles. "True."

"Fine," Morgan says. "But Vonnegut is _not_ nerdy. His works were a philosophical commentary on the state of the world, using science fiction to get his message across."

"… And that's not…?"

"No, it's classic literature satirising all aspects of society. Vonnegut even hated the idea that his works could be classified as science fiction."

"Aww, look at you, arguing passionately and everything. The true essence of a nerd," she smirks triumphantly. "Welcome to the club, you're one of us now."

Morgan huffs a laugh. "Okay, Prentiss. Whatever you say."

"Precisely," she nods. "Now, you're joining us tonight, and we're gonna marathon all the Marvel movies. I need to catch up before _Avengers_ comes out next year."

"Us?"

She nods emphatically. "You, me, Reid. My place, once I wrap this one up," she says, waving the file currently in her hand. "I'll make something."

"I'm not sure that's incentive," Morgan says with a grin.

"Old joke, Morgan. Get a new one," she snaps back. "Reid?"

He hastily looks at her, "Uh, yeah, sure."

"Lovely," she drawls, capping her pen and swivelling around. "We can take photos of Morgan and give them to Garcia. God knows she needs more blackmail material."

"Hang on, Garcia's not coming?"

"She's going over to JJ and Will's tonight."

"And Hotch?" He dares to ask, his own smirk unfurling from the corner of his mouth.

Reid chokes out a sudden laugh at the question. And out of the corner of his eye, he sees her giving the finger to Morgan, but he also doesn't miss the smile that gradually spreads across her face.

...

**iii.**

_December 11, 2011._

It's five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She's humming the first few bars of Darth Vader's theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

She hears a shuffling sound above her, and cranes her head to see Strauss peering strangely at her from the catwalk.

"Ma'am? Can I help you?"

Strauss' eyes bore into hers. "Agent Prentiss. Come with me for a moment; I want to speak with you."

Holding the stare for a moment longer, she nods, before climbing the stairs up to the catwalk. She flicks a glance over at Hotch's office and shakes her head minutely, mouths _I've got this_. Closing Strauss' door behind her, she stands resolute.

"Ma'am. How can I help?" She repeats herself, clearer than before.

Strauss wastes no time, eyes drilling holes into hers again, now with added cold appraisal. "What is the nature of your relationship with Agent Hotchner?"

Inwardly sighing, she lifts her chin and cocks her head slightly. "Agent Hotchner is the Unit Chief of the BAU. I am an agent within said unit. Ergo, he's my boss."

Strauss bristles. "You and I both know—"

"—Well, in that case, you really don't need me here, do you?" Emily says, trying to suppress her impatience. "What you and I _both_ know is that I'll say whatever I believe is right, and you'll say whatever you believe is right, and we'll both walk away from this office knowing exactly what we knew before this conversation started."

"Agent Prentiss, I have an entire Section to run, and—"

"—Yes, yes you do," Emily interrupts again, albeit much more gently. "And it's a hard job. But there are people that make it easier," she says, eyes lingering on Hotch's and Rossi's office, before dragging her attention back to Strauss. She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

"And honestly, I don't know if you're okay with these situations. But, politics aside, I _do_ know you understand. So, thank you," Emily adds, voice soft but distinct. "Will that be all?"

At Strauss' muted and distracted nod, she stands and turns without looking back, closing the door quietly behind her. On her way back to her desk, she walks past his office, gives him a quick nod, and gets a smile of reassurance in return.

...

**iv.**

_December 11, 2011._

It's five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She's humming the first few bars of Darth Vader's theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

She feels a tap on her left shoulder, and she turns to see JJ and Garcia standing there, carefully regarding her.

"Right, we've come to get you out of here," Garcia demands, forcibly pulling her out of her chair.

"Wait, hang on, let me just—" Emily splutters as she gathers up the files on her lap and places them as neatly as possible on her desk.

"Forget those icky gruesome cases, we need a night off, and _you're_ coming with us."

Emily turns pleading eyes to JJ, who simply shrugs and smirks. "Have you _tried_ arguing with her?"

"Fair point," she agrees. "Okay, what's the plan?"

Garcia's eyes dance behind her colourful frames. "Bar. Dancing. Simple."

"We haven't done this in ages," JJ explains. "Not since, well, yeah…"

Emily nods once, standing up and stretching. "Right. Now that you mention it, I'm _really_ in the mood for a drink."

"And in the mood to terrify hapless men who hit on us?" JJ smirks again, much to Garcia's delight.

"God, I will never _not_ be in the mood for that," Emily sighs. "We should turn it into a new drinking game."

"See Em, this is why we need you here," Garcia beams. "Awesome kick-ass superhero crime fighting aside."

Emily rolls her eyes, but the side of her mouth tilts up. She darts a quick glance up to his office and inclines her head slightly towards the two blondes. At his brief smile and nod, she hoists her bag on her shoulder and nudges Garcia. "Time to get smashed," she says dryly.

She hears a soft snort, and she turns around, letting JJ and Garcia in front of her.

"Have fun," Reid says abruptly, pen scratching against his page.

Emily turns back to see him already bent over the case on his desk, but she stops. "Yeah," she says, watching him lift his head and offer a tentative smile. "We will."

...

**v.**

_December 11, 2011._

It's five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She's humming the first few bars of Darth Vader's theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

A combination of boredom, tension, and restlessness courses through her, and she abruptly throws her pen down, grabs her gun and stalks off towards the elevator. She looks back behind her, relieved that no one seems surprised or concerned or feels the urgent need to follow her to make sure she doesn't go on another suicide mission.

She slides into the elevator and heads for the firing range. It's not particularly quiet; she spots a few agents in their stalls and gives them polite nods, before finding an empty space towards the end.

She loses track of time as she fires round after round after round at the paper target, neatly clustered shots, and she most definitely doesn't superimpose anyone's face onto the target. Sound disappears as her focus narrows, and it's only when she takes off the mufflers that she notices the extra presence behind her.

"Not bad at all," a voice intones. "Focused, clean, precise."

"Stop analysing me, Rossi," she retorts, carefully setting down her gun. "Why are you here?"

"Why are _you_ here?" He returns, smug smile playing around his mouth.

"Got bored," she says tersely. "Fucking paperwork."

"They're just consults. Take the downtime while you can."

She sighs, starting to pack away her weapon of choice. "Yeah, I know."

"It leaves you with too much time to think."

Emily turns around to face him. "God, I hate working with profilers sometimes."

"We're paid to notice things and overanalyse them," he quips before adding more seriously, "How are you doing?"

"I'm here," she replies after a moment, shrugging. "It's not like we can pretend that those seven months never happened. I certainly can't. But I'm tired of living under a fucking microscope."

"We care," Rossi says simply, an abbreviated repeat of what she had said to him in Indianapolis almost an eternity ago. "How could we not? When you walked out an hour ago, almost everyone tried _not_ to look up."

She falls silent as she starts walking away, back towards the elevator and up to the BAU offices. She counts their footsteps as they walk; the soothing _clicks_ forming a soundtrack to her tumultuous thoughts. And they walk and walk (_no talking_) before stopping short at the glass doors.

"Almost everyone?"

"Reid looked," he says, then pauses, trying to gauge her reaction. "Hotch didn't."

She narrows her eyes at him. "How did you know that he didn't? You can't see him from your office."

He stares at her again. "Okay, you're right," he concedes, "I didn't see him. But when I walked past, he wasn't fazed that you weren't at your desk."

"So?"

"Trust and understanding," he says. "Trust that you're not going to run away. Understanding because he's been there before. You were there two years ago; you of all people would know."

"Yeah," she whispers, still standing outside.

"You didn't give up then, and he's not going to now," he adds reassuringly.

She absently picks at her nails, before stepping forward and embracing him in a quick, impulsive hug.

"I know," she whispers again, into his ear. "I know."

He relinquishes his hold on her, eyes smiling warmly at her. "You're in it together, kiddo," he says, finally opening the door for both of them.

...

**vi.**

_December 11, 2011._

It's five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She's humming the first few bars of Darth Vader's theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

She's the last one left in the bullpen; Hotch having told everyone to rest up for tomorrow. She's not stupid nor embarrassed enough to leave and double back; instead, merely mumbles a reply to JJ's raised eyebrows and unspoken question.

The clock on her desk ticks loudly in the comfortable silence, and she exhales, studying his profile through the blinds. She flicks off the light on her desk, plunging the bullpen into near darkness. She sees his head jerk up at the sudden dimness, and smiling, she makes her way up to his office.

"Distracted?"

He places his pen down and rubs his eyes tiredly. "I fucking hate cults."

"Couldn't agree with you more," she says, lips curling into a grim smile. "Colorado was enough for me."

His eyes darken considerably. "Don't remind me," he says, clipped.

"Yeah," she winces, more on his behalf than for her own sake. "Sorry."

He softens. "Nothing to be sorry about."

She nods, waiting. He rubs his eyes again, and the bridge of his nose. "This case, other cases, Strauss breathing down my neck, how to help Reid... I'm just—I just want a fucking break," he admits to her. "I want to go somewhere else, with you and Jack, and forget about this…" _Forget about the last seven or so months_…

Without a hint of hesitation, she walks over to his desk and reaches for his hand. "Look, I'm sure tomorrow will work out fine. We'll find something substantial to pin down Kyle Lawrence, and that'll be it. Nothing complicated. God knows we've done this before."

"Let's hope so," he replies, starting to gather and tidy up some of the files on his desk. "We need a win."

"Yes, we do," she says, gently tugging him out of his chair. "Come on, let's go, before JJ or Rossi come back claiming they've 'accidentally' left their keys or whatever behind."

He gives her a pained look. "I don't expect much from Rossi, but JJ?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"I don't want to know," he says, standing and turning off the light. She walks out the door with him following close behind.

"You really don't," she says, rueful. "So, where would we go?"

"I'm sorry?" He asks, still distracted by the piece of information about JJ and Rossi. _Although_, he thinks, _you've had that sneaking suspicion for a while, haven't you?_

"You, me, Jack," she enunciates slowly. "Where would we go?"

He stares at her, with a look of utter wonder and astonishment. "I—"

"You meant it, right?"

"Of course, but—"

"—Greece," she throws out. "Your turn."

He takes a moment, pushes open the door to lead them to the elevators. "Okay. Australia."

"Maldives," she grins playfully, but he sees the slight shadow of fear and sadness in her eyes.

"Japan," he plays (imagines; visualises; fantasises) next.

"Good, I've never been," she nods. "Denmark. In winter."

He pauses and exhales as he presses the button. "Not yet," he says, quiet.

"No, I know," she says, resigned and soft. "I'm—There's still—_Fuck, I'm trying_."

His hand hovers over the small of her back as he ushers them into the elevator. As the door closes, she inches closer to his side, _still not touching_, and she turns, staring blankly at the wall and the panel of buttons. Neither of them talk as they descend, inches apart, wistful tension still palpable. The doors open to reveal the silent parking lot, and he lets her walk in front again.

They reach her car first, and just as she's about to climb in, he tenderly places a hand on her arm. "Come over tonight?"

She flashes him a brief smile. "Yeah. I just need to grab a few things from my place first."

He nods, not releasing his hand. Instead, he moves forward, wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on her head. "After this," he murmurs, only for her. "After this, after Christmas. New year."

She nods once (_certain_), and he steps back, watching the hopeful expression spread, feeling a longing ache curl from deep inside.

"Sure," she says, sparkling. "I'll hold you to that."

* * *

><p>This is physics: In another universe – in <em>many<em> other universes – Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss live happily ever after.

(He supposes that he does too.)

Spencer Reid tosses and turns, lets his overly-analytical and imaginative mind run wild. He will think of these six possibilities, and yet remember that only one was real.

He knows that some stories are majestic. Some stories are sad. Some stories are beautiful. Some stories are true.

And some stories… well, they're just stories in the end.


End file.
